


Easy

by playwithdinos



Series: Inquisitor Kaaras Adaar [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Masturbation, Multi, Nonbinary Inquisitor - Freeform, Slow Burn, Threesome, minor restraint, slowest of burns, the long and emotional buildup to sin dot doc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 20:07:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8767345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playwithdinos/pseuds/playwithdinos
Summary: It is so easy, to fall in love with Aevalle Lavellan, and Kaaras Adaar - Inquisitor, unwitting Herald of Andraste - finds themselves tongue-tied and anxious to please her, though they struggle to keep up with her as she races through the world the Inquisition is trying to save.It's not so easy to fall in love with Solas. Kaaras seems to manage it anyway, for better or worse.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Unending thanks to Theia/[valyrias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/valyrias/pseuds/valyrias) ([here on tumblr](http://unseeliequeens.tumblr.com/)) for literal months of beta work on this monstrosity.

It is so easy, to fall in love with Aevalle Lavellan.

Impossible not to, really. The first time Kaaras Adaar meets her, she is leaping from a bush, bowling them right over and tumbling with them through the snow.

They end up at the bottom of a shallow hill on their back, her atop them—hands on their shoulders, her red hair plastered to her skull with sweat and snow. She’s grinning, at the end of it—and there is the look of something frantic about it, a little desperate around the edges. After all, there’s a hole in the sky, and this is no simple tumble through the snow—there was a Rage demon about to burn them to a crisp.

But there is something wild about her, in the moment where she does not _quite_ get off them as quickly as she might. Where she looks them over for longer than she should—presses her hands into the muscles of their shoulders a little more firmly than she needs to.

“Well,” they think, when she gives no name or mention of what, exactly, she is doing. “Didn’t exactly wake up this morning expecting a pretty girl on top of me.”

Her grin widens, and they realise they have spoken aloud.

She climbs off them with a flurry of movement—and as they sit up, hot-faced and incredulous, they watch her running back up the hill, bending to retrieve her fallen knives without even slowing.

It probably says something about them, that the whole world might be ending and they’re staring at her ass as she turns and gestures for them to follow.

 _Things are looking up_ , they think, as they scramble to their feet and follow her.

She is one of the missing scouts they have detoured to find, it seems. Once the demons are gone and the rift dealt with, she tries to gesture to Cassandra to answer the Seeker’s questions—huffing repeatedly in frustration when no one understands her.

“Perhaps,” Solas suggests, “she is trying to tell us _where_ the other scouts have gone?”

They are huddled in a cave, near where she leapt from the bushes. Most of them wounded, they are surprised to see the Seeker. Among them is another Dalish, leg broken and claw marks on his face, who looks relieved to see her.

“Aevalle,” he chides. “I thought your plan was to _hide_ until help came.”

Kaaras Adaar is regarded with open suspicion, but it rings decidedly less hostile when Cassandra explains whose idea it was to come this way.

The scouts are in varying state of injury, but the way back is mostly clear, so they decide to retreat down the mountain, back towards Haven. The other Dalish, the one with the broken leg, announces that Aevalle, as the only one who can, intends to follow Cassandra and the others up to what remains of the temple.

And she does, falling in step alongside Kaaras easily.

She gestures to their hand with hers—the one that’s sparking green every other breath. She asks them a question, hands moving through the air with a grace that matches their movements in battle.

They have no idea what she’s asking them. Doesn’t make her any less beautiful.

Her— _signing_. Not her. Maybe her. She’s got really nice cheekbones.

She taps her cheek with a curious frown, as if to ask why they are so flushed.

 _Flames_. Their priorities are so royally fucked.

 

It’s not so easy to fall in love with Solas.

Or—perhaps it is. Just… more difficult to _realise_ it.

He doesn’t seem particularly approachable, at first. Seems aloof when they all follow Cassandra up the mountain, down the path from where the scouts stumbled across that rift and into what remains of the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

But when it’s all over, the Breach no longer spewing demons, they find themselves seeking him out—he seems, out of anyone, to have the closest thing to an idea of what’s going on with their hand and the sky, after all.

It’s strange how easy it is, to get him to talk. Of the Fade, of spirits, of the places he has travelled and what he’s seen while sleeping. Stranger still, how long they stand and talk about it with him. How when he speaks of it, spirits and seeing the past in dreams doesn’t seem so frightening or surreal.

He has a lovely cadence to his voice, when he speaks of the things he seems to enjoy. Like he’s reading poetry.

They never stop listening—not around campfires in the Hinterlands, not in the depths of some ancient elven temple. Breath in their throat, engrossed completely in his stories of a world they’ve never thought twice about. Aevalle beside them, just as wide eyed and enraptured by his words—though she argues them, some. Especially when Solas talks of the Dalish.

Kaaras suspects that if anyone else were talking about it, they wouldn’t be so utterly engrossed. But he is passionate, and if there’s one thing they admire most about any person, that’s the thing.

But they just admire Solas. It wouldn’t go anywhere—couldn’t. He’s never shown interest in anyone or anything that isn’t the Fade, or Spirits, or something long dead and gone from this world.

Certainly not some Vashoth mercenary, who can’t even remember how they stumbled upon the one thing that can mend the sky.

 

They think, for a while, they have a chance with Aevalle.

She is not a great mystery, once they learn to speak with her. Their warrior’s hands are not as deft with the signs she uses, and sometimes they find they must go slow, be patient, where all they want is for their hands to match the speed of their thoughts.

She asks so many questions. _Where are you from? What is being a mercenary like? What’s your favourite colour? Why did your parents leave the Qun? Do you like it here? Does your hand hurt?_

They suspect she left her clan more because it wasn’t big enough for her, than for any other reason. That she had too many questions, and only going out and finding the answers would work for her.

It’s easy to make her smile. Hard to surprise a laugh out of her—she’s embarrassed by the scraping sound that escapes her throat when she does. An old wound that prevents her from speaking, though she doesn’t quite explain where it’s from.

She smiles at everyone. But sometimes, when she looks at them, they think it is different. Certainly _feels_ that way—she looks at them in a way that makes their heart flutter in their chest, like there’s some secret between them that no one else quite understands.

But they see her sidle up to Solas, a mischievous quirk to her lips and a delicate tilt of her head, and then Sera makes some comment about elves and bits matching and how that _means something_ —

It catches in their throat, every time. Every time Aevalle walks with them, and the light catches her eyes a certain way so they stare, and stare, and cannot find the words. Not even when she pauses and asks them, _What’s on your mind?_

When she looks up at Solas, and he looks down at her and something in his gaze softens… It catches then, too. Because they thought his features interesting, before. But when he looks at her… He almost looks like one of those ancient wonders he speaks so fondly of.

 

They don’t have words for it. But—

They spend more time in the rotunda, after they dream of Solas. They find him somehow _more_ fascinating, with dramatic gestures and a clever smile. And in turn, his voice seems to deepen, as he tells his stories. His gaze seems to hold theirs for longer, before slipping away, as if he is ashamed.

 _I felt the whole world change_.

They don’t understand the lightness in their chest as they think about those words, weeks later. As they think about how the memory of his hand on their wrist had been so strong in the Fade—how the whole world seemed to be the hammer of their pulse against his skin, the heat of his flesh on theirs in the frigid Fereldan air.

 _They_ sought _him_ out, in the Fade. Not the other way around.

They are turning it over in their mind, early one morning, when their steps take them to the library floor of the rotunda. The sun is barely risen, so no one is awake—not even Dorian, who seems like such a constant feature here his absence is particularly strange.

Kaaras leans against the rail and spot Solas, pacing below. His paints open for mixing with plaster, but abandoned. His hands are shaking, and they think for a moment of calling to him.

Even from here, there is such a stormcloud over his features. They have never claimed to be particularly good at reading what Solas is thinking, but an urge rises in them; they want to take up their sword, and chase off whatever has frightened him so.

But then Aevalle slips through the rotunda door, a curious expression on her face.

They are not experienced in love. They always hesitate, when it matters. They wait too long, letting their thoughts spin around in their mind until the chance is lost, and the object of their affection sees something far brighter, and is called away.

“I apologize,” Solas says at length. “The kiss was impulsive and ill-considered. I should not have encouraged it.”

They have experience with this. With watching from afar, as Aevalle’s hands move and her smile turns too clever by far. As she teases him, and the quiet morning air is filled with the soft breaths of her soundless laughter, the gentle hum of his voice asking for _time_.

They have watched this dance. So many times—and it seems they are familiar enough with the weight of their heart in their chest, with their hands slipping from the railing, their body turning from it and leaving Solas and Aevalle behind.

But there is no twinge of jealousy—and later, alone in their quarters with the image of the scene in the rotunda playing in their mind over and over, Kaaras finds they cannot decide which elf they are pining for.

 

“Is it possible,” they start to ask Bull one day. They’re in the Emerald Graves, standing on the shore of the river, and watching from afar as Solas gestures to some ruin. Distance and the haze of the heat obscure his words, but not the hooded eyes Aevalle watches him with.

Aevalle twines her hand in his, and Solas is startled into silence. He glances down at her, and she stands on her toes to steal a kiss—though judging by the way he stoops to meet her, halfway, it is less stolen and more freely given.

They never finish the question. They are thinking of her hands on their shoulders, their back in the snow and the torn sky raging above them. Of what kissing Solas in the Fade might have felt like, had they been bold enough.

“Boss,” Bull says, gently. His voice distracts them from the two elves, standing among the ruin of their history and grinning at one another like lovestruck fools. “No offense. But you need to get laid.”

 

“Is it possible to fall in love with two people at once?” they finally ask, when the Herald’s Rest is empty. Sera is under the table with Aevalle slumped beside her, both snoring, and Bull has already left, carrying Krem and Skinner each over a shoulder back to the barracks.

They have barely touched their ale all night, but the bartender gives them one look and takes it away, regardless, shaking his head as he walks away.

The bartender rouses Sera enough to get her up the stairs, but Aevalle does not wake. So they pick her up in their arms, and she is so _small_ , so light. She slumps against them, smiling at whatever pleasant dream she’s so taken with, and they cannot help but stare down at her for a moment. Or longer.

They are thinking of her hand on their arm, partway through the night. When she had given up on signing, her thoughts moving too fast for the sluggish movements of her hands to keep up.

 _You are so…_ she’d kept trying to sign.  She’d attempted several times, albeit with vague gestures too unfamiliar to figure out, before giving up with a displeased huff. _I wish Solas could see that._

And then her skin, burning hot on theirs, as her fingers twined around theirs, with such a slow and dedicated focus only the truly intoxicated can accomplish.

“Gentle,” comes a soft voice at their side. Cole is standing where there was only empty air before. “She was trying to say gentle.”

Kaaras stares at him. Cole blinks, as if he has suddenly remembered blinking is something he is supposed to do.

“Yes _,_ ” he says, and then vanishes.

 

 _Did I tell you anything embarrassing last night?_ she asks, the next morning.

“Of course not,” Kaaras tells her, their cheeks hot as they adjust the saddle on their horse.

It’s hard to avoid her gaze when they have to look at her to understand what she’s saying.

Aevalle tilts her head with a curious frown, but is kind enough to let it go.

 

They wake from a dream with two mouths on their skin.

Panting into the air of their tent, their clothes twisted around them, they are barely aware of anything but _need_ , of too-vivid fragments of a half-remembered dream. Their hand is between their legs before they’ve given thought to anything but _relief_ , anything but Aevalle trying to choke back the few ragged sounds she is capable of making while their tongue laves at her breasts, while Solas pounds into them from behind, relentlessly.

They imagine their fingers are inside Aevalle as they twist them inside themselves, and it’s not long before they’re trying to stifle a soft cry into their bedroll. Face down, pressing themselves into the ground, their hand aching from the angle and the weight of their own body.

It occurs to them, after the chill of the night chases away the blissful fog of release and settles into the sweat that has soaked through their clothing, that this is not precisely the sort of dream they should be having about someone who has been known to wander into them.

 _You sought him out_ , a helpful voice in the back of their thoughts reminds them, and a whole new wave of panic sets in.

They hear movement in the tent beside theirs. A sleepy mumble—Solas’s voice, certainly.

They don’t know if that’s a good sign or not.

They think they hear the sounds of clothing being rooted around for, and they decide not to take their chances. They arrange their thin tunic around themselves, and although it barely covers their ass they decide that it’s decent enough, and they bolt out of their tent as fast as their legs will take them.

The desert air is freezing on their sweat soaked skin. The water of the oasis, even more so.

They stand under the waterfall until the throbbing between their legs subsides, until their heart stops racing and they feel like they can breathe without the danger of letting out a frustrated scream.

There is a good chance that Solas waking up at that precise moment was, in fact, just a coincidence. Maybe he and Aevalle were off having a perfectly respectable wander through the Fade, puzzling out the mystery of that scary ancient elvhen temple. Or, they were having perfectly respectable sex in the Fade, without a third party shoehorning their way in.

They bury their face in their hands. _Maker_.

They are not paying any particular attention to their surroundings as they stand in the deepest part of the oasis, lost in thought. Thinking about how to possibly determine the best way to ask Aevalle if she dreamed up a three way without making it sound like they were an active participant in said three way, when they look up and see Solas standing on the bank.

Oddly, their first coherent thought is that he’s not wearing a shirt.

They’ve never seen Solas in any state of undress—bizarrely, even in their dream Solas was fully clothed, wolf jawbone hitting their back with every ragged thrust of his hips. And of _course_ that’s where their thoughts go, seeing him standing there like a deer in the hunter’s sights, the moonlight making his pupils shine back green at them.

It doesn’t help that he’s staring at them, either. His impossibly wide eyes wandering up their bare arms and legs. At the way that white shift clings to their stomach, their collarbone, their breasts.

All that work the waterfall did for them is utterly undone. At least they can blame their knees trembling on the cold, though their face feels like it’s on fire.

“Kaaras,” he says, too loudly. Nearly shouts it, in fact.

“Solas,” they answer back. Wondering if Solas has ever said their name before, without _Inquisitor_ or _Herald_ attached.

Solas swallows. It’s hard not to stare at the movement of his throat.

“Good evening,” he says, and turns on his heel and walks back to camp.

Kaaras watches him go. Wondering if it’s their imagination, or if his gait is a little peculiar, and his strides a little too quick.

 

“So,” Bull asks as the party winds its way through the temple. “Aevalle, you and Solas ever have hot Fade sex?”

Solas sputters indignantly, but does not manage to give a reply, either way.

Kaaras trips over a stair, and does not see Aevalle’s answer.

 

Solas asks if the anchor changed them, in the privacy of their balcony.

“Qunari are savage creatures,” Solas says, “their ferocity only held in check by the rigid teachings of the Qun.”

They tell Aevalle about it later, over a few too many drinks.

She opens her mouth, then snaps her jaw shut so hard and fast her teeth clack. _He said what_ , she signs, shoulders rigid.

“And then he said I was wiser than the Fade.” They are about to take another drink, but pause. “Wait, that’s not…”

Aevalle signs something that means, roughly, _That asshole_ , and exhales a breath so sharp and quick it almost sounds like a curse. _Kaaras, I’m sorry. That was horrible of him._

They shrug. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard before, Aevalle,” they say, peering into their ale and trying their best to look casual about it.

She prods their shoulder until they look at her.

 _Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt_ , she signs, with soft gestures and a gentle smile.

Perhaps they are not doing a particularly good job of hiding how much it hurt, sitting in the Herald’s Rest and drowning their sorrows. But Aevalle pries their fingers away from their tankard, and twines them with hers as she leans on their shoulder.

She is… warm, and soft. And so small, next to them, dressed in slim hunting leathers where they all but hide their body in every layer they can throw on themselves.

But they are the one who feels protected, safe, with her nestled against them.

 

They almost lose Aevalle, when they fall into the Fade.

She and Kaaras are separated from the others, by a wave of spiders— _fearlings_ , apparently, but Maker’s Breath if it’s got eight legs and makes skittering motions with them then _yes they’re spiders_.

No one can say how it happened, later. One minute she is at their side, hands on her dual blades, and the next she is not—charging off some distance away, down some side path that Kaaras swears didn’t exist before.

“Fucking Fade,” they curse, bringing their shield up as they follow her.

And it’s less of a path than a hallway, the further they slip from the others. Again, not their smartest move, but Kaaras is so used to just being followed without question now that they do not look over their shoulder to glance at the fearlings closing in behind them.

So when they catch up with Aevalle, they are both surrounded—and they fight with their backs to one another, Kaaras shouting and bellowing to divert their attention from the slim Dalish woman at their side, and to hopefully draw their companions back to them.

And… it speaks to how unsettled they are, how utterly out of their element they are in this world that shifts and whispers of every horror they’ve ever felt, that they turn—and see Aevalle has taken a blow for them.

The others find Kaaras shielding Aevalle’s prone form from attack as she curls around herself, hand pressed to her stomach.

Solas is pale, his hands shaking as he looks between them.

It’s… a close thing. Solas is sweating as he heals her, in the one peaceful place they can find for the purpose. Aevalle lying among some strange graveyard, she has abandoned all attempts at signing to explain herself, her bloody fingers clinging to the pelt slung across his armour for dear life.

“How could you let this happen?” he snaps, although Kaaras is not certain who he is talking to.

Solas doesn’t look like knows, either.

 

“I misspoke,” Solas says, looking out into the sunrise, to the kind of clear sky that Kaaras has learned only comes with a biting cold.

Mornings in the Emprise are so cold that Kaaras thinks their eyeballs are freezing solid. But they wait, tucking their face into their scarf and letting their breath warm their nose, for him to clarify.

They stand there so long, they almost ask him. _Which specific instance are you apologizing for, Solas?_

But there is something—peaceful, about this. Something soft in his expression as he looks out at the frozen world, and considers something that Kaaras will probably never understand. Gaze turned inward, instead of out.

“People make mistakes,” Kaaras says instead. “The world goes on.”

Solas closes his eyes. “Does it?” he asks, softly.

 

Aevalle is _delighted_ , when she sees them in their uniform.

 _Where were you hiding all this?_ she teases before squeezing their arm. It’s hard to tell, with her specific skintone, but Kaaras thinks she looks a little flushed.

“Under about a hundred layers of wool and linen,” Varric quips, looking over the letters he’s writing with a little smile.

“Fourteen,” Kaaras corrects before they can stop themselves.

Aevalle, thankfully, ignores them both. _Turn for me!_

They cannot help but oblige her, nor can they help the embarrassed laugh they give when she gestures for them to do it again.

And they—forget to be uncomfortable. They forget that the shape of their body is exposed to anyone who might glance their way, in the face of Aevalle’s warm smile and wandering gaze.

They bow, sweeping and low. “May I have this dance?” they ask, forgetting themselves enough to be bold for a change.

Perhaps they stammer and flush a little too much, to be called _truly_ bold. And they can see Varric’s brows shoot up, from the corner of their eye, which makes their hand tremble a little.

But Aevalle only beams up at them, easy and gentle, and takes their offered hand.

When they stop, Kaaras looks up from Aevalle, her head bowed in silent laughter, to see Solas leaning in the doorframe. Watching them both with an expression that Kaaras thinks is… soft.

Solas notices them looking, and a mask of cool neutrality slips over his features.

 

At the end of the night, the Empress and her lover reunited, a promise of aid from Morrigan secured, Kaaras leans on the railing of a balcony at the Winter Palace and hears a familiar laugh.

They glance over and down—and there, in perfect view, are Aevalle and Solas, framed in the moonlight. Kaaras happens to look at just the perfect moment to see Aevalle throwing Solas’s helmet into the gardens.

And then it is their turn to watch and smile as the humble apostate—who has been acting very little like a humble apostate this evening—sweeps the Dalish hunter into his arms, surprising a rough, broken laugh out of her.

Kaaras watches them dance, watches as Solas reaches up and slips her hair out of the intricate braids it has been done up in. Watches him bend, and press his lips to the nape of her neck.

They finish their wine, and leave the glass on the rail. They turn and leave Aevalle and Solas to the evening—to the last sweeping notes of the music drifting out of the ballroom, to the stars and the moonlight, and to the comfort of each other’s arms.

 

Bull takes them to Val Royeaux, gets them drunk, and buys them a prostitute.

They… are not aware this is his plan at all. They don’t really catch on, not even when their head feels pleasantly fuzzy and Bull is leading them into a room.

“Boss, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he’s saying, his arm over their shoulders. “And you shouldn’t make _her_ do anything she doesn’t want to, but that’s a conversation for you two to have while you get yourselves _acquainted_. She’s paid up for the night, and whatever that means is… up to you.”

It takes them an embarrassing amount of time to realise what, exactly, he is talking about, even after he shoves them into a room and closes the door behind them. They laugh and make a show of trying to open the door again, but Bull presses his bulk up against it and blocks them.

It’s really only when they hear a low, husky laugh from the other side of the room that it clicks in that this is not a silly ‘lock the Inquisitor in a closet’ prank.

Or, rather, it’s a ‘lock the Inquisitor in the closet _with a prostitute_ ’ prank.

 _Okay_ , the closet is a bedroom, but the point remains.

“Bull never told me you were funny,” she says, and that’s when Kaaras realises they’ve just said all of that out loud.

“That’s because I’m not,” their traitor mouth spouts, while they’re too busy internally screaming to stop it.

She approaches them, and they can finally make her out in the low light. She’s a dwarf, with curves everywhere that have been adorned with sharp-lined tattoos that they are… _pretty sure_ aren’t traditional. One memorable design is a particularly angular dragon, breathing equally shaped flames.

Even their traitor mouth can’t speak, as she takes their hand and leads them to the bed. She has… the softest skin they’ve ever felt.

She gets them to sit, and starts to remove their clothing while they stare at her, helplessly.

She starts to giggle after the fourth layer she strips off, clearly in spite of a really solid attempt to keep a coy, patient smile on her face. She sounds… nice, Kaaras thinks, watching her shoulders relax as she slips them out of layer after layer.

However, once she pulls off their last shirt—that final, sleeveless layer over their breast band—they make fists in the sheets. Their heart hammers as her gaze starts to wander over their arms, and her hands rest over theirs.

Her expression is soft. “You alright there?” she asks, tilting her head to the side.

They swallow. Their tongue is twisted into knots, and they can’t answer her.

She hums, thoughtfully, and tilts her head to the side. Then she slips away from them, and walks over to a set of drawers not far from the bed. She starts to rummage around in them, resting her weightleaning rather pointedly on one foot, then on the other, to draw attention to the curve of her ass.

Kaaras stares, frozen utterly in place.

She finally settles on long, long lengths of silk, and returns to the bed.

“I have an idea,” she says. Her smile is so gentle, Kaaras feels some of the terror ease a little.

The silk is soft on their eyelids, fluttering when she kisses the fabric that covers them, very gently.

Kaaras is more aware of the sound of her moving than of anything. Silk on silk, skin on skin as her hands wander down, down, and dip under the waistband of their smalls. Not to pull—just to tease.

“Picture someone,” she whispers. “Anyone you like.”

They breathe—in, out, in, out, in—and she presses her lips to the curve of their jaw, soft and plump and _she smells like flowers_ , not like death and blood and sweat—

Not like elfroot, cedar, or the dusty smell of hay and horses, like old books or plaster or that chemical tang of alchemical reagents—

“Go on,” she urges. Her lashes brush their skin. “Tell me.”

Her hands wander up. Kaaras hears the sound of soft linen being unwound, feels the pressure of their breastband on their chest lighten.

“Is she beautiful?” she asks against their neck. It feels— _nice_ , and they find themselves tilting their head back, curving their neck until they feel the brush of her teeth on their skin. “The girl.”

“How did you—”

She laughs. Low and husky and sweet. “There’s always someone, love.”

They breathe—through parted lips, and the sound of breath passing through their mouth is so obscenely _loud_ to their ears.

She kisses them some more. They—are having a very difficult time keeping track of how much, because they can feel one of her hands running down the muscle on their stomach, to slip under the waistband of their smalls once again.

“Would she blindfold you? Tie you up?”

And—and they can see it. Clear as day, as if it’s happening right in front of them. Her calloused hands, dextrous fingers winding lengths of silk around pale, freckled skin—

“No,” they say, very softly. “She’d tie him up, though.”

She hums, and if she is surprised she gives no indication. A single finger running along the line their smalls have pressed into their skin.

“She’d—she’d tie him up because he doesn’t know how to let go, and then she would use her mouth and—and he would struggle, and say he wants to please her instead but he needs—he wants—”

“Where are you?” she asks against their collarbone. “What are you doing?”

“I,” Kaaras starts, but cannot finish.

She laughs against their skin. “I think,” she says, softly, “you are behind him, working your fingers into him, while she takes him into her mouth.”

“Yes,” Kaaras breathes. Can _see_ her eyes meet theirs, around the curve of his hip. Before they look up and see Solas throw his head back, as their smallest finger slides in up to the knuckle, wet with oil.

 _Please_ , he is begging. _Please, please_ —

She slips her hand into their smalls, and Kaaras jerks in place as they feel impossibly smooth skin brush against them.

“Stop,” they say, louder than they mean to.

She retreats. Kaaras leans forward, just trying to breathe.

“I’m sorry—”

“I’m so sorry,” Kaaras blurts. “I’m such a—I’ve never done this before, not with anyone, only with my hands and with the things I can’t stop thinking about at night and _it’s so fucked up_ , because lately all I can think about is them, in every way, and I can only get off if I think of fucking them, _both of them_ , and that doesn’t even help because then it’s over and I’m alone and _why_ , why do I want them both when I’m not even brave or strong or bold enough to say how I feel to even _one_ of them?”

She does not move. Does not even react—and Kaaras is glad for the blindfold, that they can’t see her disgust. They feel their own tears soaking the fabric that covers their eyes, and they choke on the great, ugly sobs rising from their chest but they can’t stop now that it’s all spilling out.

“I love them,” they say, “I love her because she’s beautiful and kind and she doesn’t look at me like I’m a monster. Because she’s clever and she wants to protect everyone, but someone has to stop her from running off and getting herself killed but _she’s half my size._ She makes me feel _safe_ when I’m with her. And I love him because he loves her, maybe, but sometimes he just looks so fucking lost  and I want to hide him away from every awful thing that he thinks is chasing him. I’m a mess, I’m not even a real person as far as he’s concerned—I’m just one step up from a mindless animal and he’ll never look at me the way he looks at her.”

Their words devolve, then, into a mess of sputtering and incoherent sobs. And they are aware, at some point, of a hand on their back, of arms wrapping around them, of a soft voice hushing them.

She waits until they have cried it all out to remove the blindfold. Then she pauses, and kisses the tracks their tears have left on their cheeks—but it is a different kind of intimacy, Kaaras thinks. Something gentler, like an apology.

Kaaras opens their eyes, and finds her looking at them with an expression that is—very soft, they think. Accepting?

She helps them put a few layers back on, then gets them to lie back in the bed. She blows out the candles, then curls up under the sheets next to them. Nestles in close, fingers curling in theirs, and they fall asleep with their arms around her, the softness of her breaths on their skin.

 

“You weren’t ready,” Cole says, one early morning on the battlements. “It’s alright. She thought you were sweet.”

Kaaras can’t help a bitter laugh. “Easiest sovereigns she’s ever made, probably,” they mutter.

Cole tilts his head to the side. “No,” he tells them.

When Kaaras looks at him with a raised brow, Cole gives a… nearly human shrug. “There wasn’t a bear costume,” he says, as if that explains anything.

Cullen stumbles upon Kaaras moments later, doubled over and laughing so hard they’re crying, apparently all alone.

 

Kaaras wakes to—pain, to haze. To cold, and dampness on their brow. There is something wrong with their shoulder, they can’t move it—

Someone is shouting. “Protect the Inquisitor!”

That sounds like someone important, Kaaras thinks. They try to rise, to help, but—

There is a gentle hand on their other shoulder, pressing them back down to the ground. A warm touch that chases a little of the chill from their skin, like a distant flame.

“They are going into shock,” someone says.

“Solas,” they realize, blinking up at him.

He is not looking at them. In fact, he’s scowling at their shoulder. They have to squint through the rain to see him properly.

“ _Vhenan_ ,” Solas says, “cover me.”

A shadow moves—Kaaras can’t really see where, it moves so fast. Graceful, they think, which is silly, because they don’t really see anything.

They try to laugh, but it hurts.

“Inquisitor,” Solas says. “Inquisitor!”

It’s very hard to keep their eyes open. They’re not sure why they have to, but—Solas is talking to someone else now, right? Maybe it’s alright if they just…

“ _Kaaras!_ ”

They jerk in place, eyes snapping open. His face is all twisted up as he looks at their shoulder.

Kaaras tries to look at it, but all they see is an awful lot of blood, all over his hands and up his arms. All the way up to his elbows.

It’s all their fault. They know that, somehow—

“My barrier could have taken that blow,” Solas hisses. “I would have been fine. That was—foolish and irresponsible, Kaaras. You are—the whole world is depending on your safety, and you just—”

His words are lost, in the roar of some great creature. In the crackle of electricity, and the scrape of claws on stone and the distant roll of thunder.

It all comes back to them in a rush—great claws reaching for Solas. Kaaras barrelling through to shove him out of the way.

“—understand your affection for Aevalle, but it is no excuse to get yourself killed trying to protect me to prove you are not jealous—”

They don’t like it when he’s angry. His face twists up and his eyes go to that dark place, the one Kaaras can’t follow.

They reach up with their good hand, and cup the side of his face with it.

He stills. A breath is inhaled through his mouth,  and he abandons whatever words he’s speaking . His eyes snap up to theirs, lock on and _hold_ , there. Kaaras’s heart beats a little faster, to have him so close.

Their thumb trails over his mouth. It might be the blood loss talking, but it seems like his lips tremble at their touch.

“… Did it for you,” they manage to say. “You’re important, too.”

Solas gapes at them.

They smile up at his dumbstruck face until they pass out again.

 

They have nightmares after that.

They’ve always had them, since this whole mess started—Corypheus tearing their heart out, Haven in ruins, Skyhold falling to a blighted dragon…

It’s probably easier to list the things they _haven’t_ thought of in the night, while they’re shaking and sweating. Bread. Those little cakes Solas likes.

But after the Vinsomer, they dream of the dragon’s claws tearing through their flesh. Of failing to bring their shield up properly to deflect the blow as they shove Solas out of the way, so they take it full force on their right side.

Just as often, they dream that they do not reach him in time, that Aevalle crouches over his motionless body, her hands covered in his blood as she tries, and fails, to stop its flow.

_How could you let this happen?_

They wake to the oppressive heat of the Emerald Graves, to the canvas of their tent and the rush of the nearby river. Feeling their own chest rise and fall with each breath, and the pull of the thick scar tissue at their right shoulder, trailing down above their breast.

They roll over, and rummage through their belongings until they find the oil meant to soften it. They work it into their shoulder, stifling curses under their breath at the stiffness of their own muscles.

There’s… probably something to be done about that. If they found the right person to ask.

They hear the sound of another tent opening, somewhere nearby. The rustle of heavy canvas, soft breaths that sound like laughter in the night.

Kaaras freezes in place, not even breathing as they listen to the sound of skin on skin—of breaths rushing against one another, footsteps fumbling as two people stumble through camp. The scuff of bare feet on dirt—a low laugh, the sound of it shooting right to their core.

 _Solas_.

Kaaras waits, eyes wide, and listens as Solas and Aevalle make their way past the tents—not being particularly subtle about what they’re running off to do in the dead of night. They start to pass Kaaras’s tent—but then one of them stops, abruptly.

They can make out the shadow cast by the moonlight through the trees—Aevalle, tugging at Solas’s shirt as he tries to move on from where she lingers. Right outside Kaaras’s tent.

“ _Vhenan_ ,” Solas whispers, his voice thick and low. “I do not think that is wise.”

Kaaras thinks either their heart will leap from their chest, or Aevalle and Solas will hear it hammering against their ribcage.

She tugs at him, gently.  Kaaras watches as he shakes his head, then dives in to kiss her.

Kaaras can hear them breathing as their mouths move against one another. Can hear their skin gliding, their lips smacking, teeth clacking—

Solas pulls her away, and she follows.

Kaaras sits in the tent and tries to remember how to breathe. Tries to lie back and close their eyes, but when they do all they see is the silhouette of Aevalle and Solas before their tent, twined around one another—

They throw enough layers on to feel comfortable, and slip out into the dark.

The river is cold, and the water they splash on their face is a welcome balm. It’s not deep enough here to jump in and completely immerse themselves as they want, so they make do with crouching in the shadows and throwing or patting it all over themselves. Only marginally more dignified than just giving up and lying there, in water that wouldn’t even cover them.

“Heat and her pressed against me—bark at my back _but it could be flesh._ Firm—scars and muscles and steady hands, they would hold me. I don’t deserve even this, but _they would hold me_.”

Kaaras slowly turns. Cole is standing in the shallows beside them, river water babbling through his feet like he’s no more than another smooth stone.

“Spilling down her throat, face burning— _don’t look so smug, vhenan._ ” Cole tilts his head. “He called your name, not hers.”

The spirit disappears, and Kaaras reconsiders just lying in the water and never getting up again.

 

A few days after they return to Skyhold from cleaning up loose ends in the Emerald Graves, Aevalle begins acting strangely.

She joins them for a drink in the Herald’s Rest, same as usual. But she is quieter than usual—or, well. By that Kaaras means she does not join the easy conversation, idle gossip and swapping of tall tales everyone usually gets up to with drinks in hand. Doesn’t even try to tell anyone how she saw Kaaras trip face-first into a tree.

Not that they’re ungrateful. They were… distracted. By staring at Solas staring at her ass.

 _Maker_. They’re a hot fucking mess.

No, she mostly sits and listens, and stares a little into the distance—in the direction of the rotunda, Kaaras thinks. Sometimes she stares at them, but she never seems to notice when they catch her doing it.

Out of the blue, in the middle of Bull telling some story, she nods to herself, downs the rest of her ale in one go, then deposits her coin on the table as she stands. She kisses Kaaras on the cheek as she passes.

Kaaras sputters, Sera laughs, and Varric leans his chair so he can see Aevalle go.

“Hey, where you going?”

She turns long enough to sign, _To work_ , and then saunters out the door.

Touching their cheek where she kissed it, Kaaras asks, “What was that about?”

Varric only shakes his head. “If I were you, Layers, I’d be _very_ worried right about now.”

But they don’t think anything of it. They just pick up their cards and lose an embarrassing amount of coin to Sera and Varric, as usual, then stumble back up the stairs at the end of the night, humming an off-key tune to the quiet air, content that no one is around to hear it.

They enter the keep proper, and they see there is still light emanating from the rotunda.

When they close the doors behind them, they hear the sound of a paintbrush clattering to the floor.

“ _Vhena—ahh—”_

They feel heat rise to their cheeks when Solas’s confused protest is stalled—transformed midway to a stifled gasp of pleasure. They glance around them, frantically, but there is no one up at this hour to overhear.

Or… to see them standing there, listening to the sound of Solas’s belt being undone, his voice muffled against Aevalle’s lips. Their frantic breaths are barely loud enough to cover the sounds he starts to make, deep in his throat, when Kaaras hears the rustle of clothing.

Kaaras stands stock still. _Maker_ , they think, _what did I ever do to you?_

They are certain they will be seen, if they try to pass. Or heard—they are not a particularly quiet person, especially when a little drunk.

Never mind that Aevalle and Solas are probably too… _occupied_ , to pay much attention to them.

Regardless, they can’t make a decision between fleeing for their room and hoping for the best, or fleeing through the doors behind them and praying that no one notices the Inquisitor sleeping in the stables… again.

So they stand there, listening to Solas’s moans grow louder, his breaths more frantic, and then Aevalle must break away because—

“ _Vhenan_ ,” he begs. It’s a high whine, a blatant plea. “Let me—you need— _please_.”

There is the sound of lips on flesh, the ever-steady rustle of fabric. The occasional sound of something smacking against a wall, halting, inconsistent.

Kaaras has the vivid mental image of Aevalle kissing her way down Solas’s neck with her hand down his pants. His hips bucking into her ministrations, head thrown back, throat exposed—

As abruptly as it began, Solas gives a dismayed cry. Kaaras flushes, thinking—but no, there is only the sound of Aevalle abruptly turning on her heel, her leather bound feet padding with even strides across the rotunda floor.

Kaaras ducks behind the nearest table, trying their best to hide their horns along with the rest of them.

They watch through the gaps in the chair legs as Aevalle strides to the garden door, opens it without so much as glancing about, and closes it behind her.

They count to twenty, waiting for Solas to follow her. Then, when it seems like he won’t, they slowly stand. Glancing, uneasily, all the while to the rotunda door.

They hear Solas settle into his chair with a frustrated sigh.

Just when they think it is safe enough to sneak by, they hear the sound of fabric rustling once again.

 _You have got to be kidding me_ , they think, horrified, as Solas lets out a shaky breath.

Just that noise is enough to echo in the rotunda, to spill out into the empty main hall of the keep.

Kaaras thinks they have to say—do—something, _anything_ , but Solas’s breaths begin to speed up again, and now Kaaras can hear the sound of flesh sliding on flesh.

Solas grunts, and Kaaras feels a wave of heat shoot right through them at the sound of it.

He gasps, and Kaaras wipes their sweaty palms on their clothes.

And then he begins to let out other noises—tiny little _ahhs_ , frantic little whines of pleasure. Kaaras parts their lips and licks them, feeling their heart begin to race, the blood begin to pound in their ears—

The chair scrapes on the floor, perhaps just a finger’s breadth by the sound of it.

And then it happens again, and again, and—

Solas is thrusting, frantically, into his own hand.

“ _Vhenan_ ,” he whines. “Aevalle. My heart, I want—I want—”

Kaaras feels like they’re burning alive in their own skin. Heart racing, skin itching, everything sweating and unbearably _hot_ and—

“Kaaras,” Solas whispers. “Aevalle—Kaaras— _ah!_ ”

They listen, heart hammering in their ears, to Solas choke back the last of his cries. To the grind of the chair legs against the floor grow louder, to Solas’s breath hitch and his frantic, desperate panting stop, for just a moment.

Then the chair scrapes on the floor once more, longer this time, and Solas gasps as if coming up for air.

Kaaras bolts for their door, right about then. Not caring who might see or hear them.

They scramble up the stairs, and triple lock both doors behind them. They throw open the windows and pace the length of their quarters, trying to still the beating of their heart as they rip their layers off, piece by piece.

Too many. Too many, they’re still too hot—

They go back down the first set of stairs and check the door twice more, once they are down to their thinnest layers. The second time, they force themselves to stop—to rest their forehead against the cool wood of the door, the sound of their own desperate panting filling their ears.

They close their eyes, and they can hear it. _Kaaras_. A whine, a plea—a desperate release of some great secret.

Maker. They’re burning alive in their own skin.

By the time they give up on any other distraction and collapse on the bed, succumbing to memories of their name spoken in wracked breaths and the touch of their own fingers, they are so keyed up that actual release is not hard to come by.

It seems like their fingers do less work than simply… _picturing_ it does. Just imagining Solas, all bound up in soft silk, hard and ready and _begging_ , but unable to move. Aevalle at his back, her fingers splayed over his chest, her eyes locked with theirs.

They hear it again— _Kaaras_ —and they cry into their pillow. Face down, spasming around their fingers.

 

For the next three days, Kaaras is pretty sure neither they nor Solas get any sleep at all.

Every time Aevalle is near Kaaras, she touches them. Fleeting little drags of her fingertips across the back of their hand, when she is pointing out something on a map to them. Every time she leaves Kaaras, she kisses them on the cheek. Chastely, Kaaras tries to tell themselves, but then she starts running her fingers along the line of their jaw as she does it and…

Kaaras thinks their face might burn right off.

Even worse, it seems like every time they turn around, Solas is there. Either giving Aevalle some wary look, or watching Kaaras from afar with some expression they can’t read.

The worst is when they’re sparring with Cullen, and they manage to pin him. Down to only a few thin layers, they can feel the bite of the cold mountain air on their skin. There’s quite a few onlookers today, even a few visiting nobles waving fans as they watch.

Eyeing Cullen, of course. Not the Inquisitor who has him pinned and struggling beneath them, weapons abandoned in the dirt for a mad scramble on the ground.

But they catch a glimpse in the crowd, and it makes them glance up for a moment.

They only catch the sight for half a heartbeat, but—

Solas standing there, a spectacular flush blown across his cheeks as he stares right at them. His lips part as Kaaras watches, the bottom one trembling.

And Aevalle is beside him, her mouth on his neck, her hand tangling in the leather cord of that wolf jawbone he always wears.

Cullen flips them onto their back in the dirt, and Kaaras loses sight of them both.

“What is her plan and how do I make it stop?” Kaaras asks Bull over drinks later.

Bull raises a brow. “You want it to stop?”

Kaaras opens their mouth. The memory of Solas’s voice calling their name in the rotunda, ragged and desperate, comes to mind unbidden.

“No,” they answer, and Bull grins like an idiot and smacks them on the back.

“Thought so,” he says. Then he squeezes their shoulder, and his expression turns serious. “Look,” he says. “She hasn’t told me what game she’s playing, and—well, I think the others are concerned you’ve all wrapped yourselves in some kind of twisted love triangle.”

Kaaras tries to hide their face in their hands.

“ _Maker_ ,” Kaaras breathes. “I never—where did they—I never said—”

“Boss,” he says, voice flat, “you’ve been making doe eyes at Aevalle for longer than I’ve known you.”

“There are no doe eyes,” Kaaras says into their palms.

“But what the _others_ have failed to notice is that you’ve been making them at Solas too.”

Kaaras hesitates, then peeks out at Bull through their fingers.

The Iron Bull is only smiling.

“Well, to be fair, took me a while to pick up on it. Thought you were just jealous.”

“Jealous,” Kaaras squeaks.

“Look,” Bull says, pulling Kaaras closer to him so he can speak softly. “My point is, all I think Aevalle is doing is making her intentions clear. To both you _and_ Solas. And I don’t think she’s going to stop until either you or Solas gives her a firm _no_. Or,” he adds, with a lopsided grin, “both of you give her a firm _yes_.”

They blink owlishly at him. Bull only leans back and laughs, a great bellowing guffaw that makes the other patrons jump in their seats a little.

Mostly Kaaras. Probably only Kaaras.

“Anyway,” Bull says, pausing to finish off his tankard and slam it down on the bar. “You need me to talk to her, let me know. Or,” he adds with a significant waggle of his brows, “if you need any advice on, say, _positions_ , then just say the word, Boss.”

Kaaras is too busy burying their face in their hands again to watch him go.

 _Positions_. As in—plural. _Maker_.

They pay for their drink as soon as they think their face is no longer too flushed for walking about. And if they leave with a little quicker gait than usual, no one brings attention to it.

They climb the steps and enter the keep, then spend some time socializing with a few dignitaries Josephine introduces to them. They manage to say a few things that won’t immediately embarrass the Inquisition, and Josephine looks pleased, so they feel only a little off-kilter when they finally enter their quarters proper and close the door behind them.

They flop on their bed with a heavy sigh, still in all their layers. It’ll be stifling later, but for the moment they’ll just lie back and…

A breeze kisses their skin.

Their eyes snap open.

They sit up, slowly, and look to the balcony door, which has been left open.

There’s a rope somewhere in the room, they know, to inconspicuously pull if they expect the presence of assassins. There’s a little bell up somewhere that rings, and the sound of it going off will probably send half the Inquisition marching up those stairs.

But then again, Kaaras thinks, there’s little that’s more frightening in the Inquisition than their Vashoth Inquisitor.

They stand, slowly, and make their way to the balcony. Grabbing their sword from its stand on the way, they hold it at their side as they approach. Soft steps, straining to hear anything—

—like a muffled gasp, coming from below.

They close the distance to the balcony a little more quickly, and lean over the railing to look below.

Later, Kaaras will think about how… perfect this view is. How they are standing in the exact spot to look down and see Solas with his back to the balcony rail, gripping  it with white-knuckled fingers, his head thrown back and his neck bared towards them. Every bit of skin they can see is flushed, ready for kissing. They see one lithe arm slung across his hips, barring him from bucking too much, the other hand under him and—Aevalle taking the entire length of him down her throat.

In that moment, however, all they can think is how much they want to climb down there and start biting Solas’s perfect fucking neck.

Then Solas opens his eyes, and locks his gaze with theirs.

 _Oh_ , Kaaras thinks. Oh. His eyes are so black. Pupils blown so wide, lips parted just so. The whole picture is so perfect, they don’t even think about how they are interrupting. How they should let go of the rail, close the door and let them continue in privacy.

It isn’t even a thought that occurs to them, until Solas lifts his hands from the rail and uses the signs Aevalle taught them. _Don’t go._

Kaaras wavers, then. They—they can’t. Listening is one thing, when stumbling upon them by accident, but this? They’re not sure they can take this. Watching as Aevalle moves, as Solas writhes against the balcony rail, flushed and wanting and _perfect_ , all exposed to the moonlight and the cold night air.

This is intruding, isn’t it? They can’t be wanted in this—

“Please,” Solas begs, when they pull their hands from the rail. “Please.”

He’s still staring up at them, wide-eyed and strangely vulnerable.

It’s… strange, but this seems the more private thing. To see him so utterly unmasked, the want in his gaze as plain to see as the flush on his cheeks.

They find… they find they cannot deny him. That they do not want to.

So they watch, as Aevalle doubles her efforts—as she rocks, back and forth, as the most _obscene_ sounds of slick and pleasure rise from the balcony below. As Solas is pulled to and fro by her movements, by her hand that sometimes wanders, but keeps coming back to his balls. As she plays his whole body like an instrument—as he gasps and moans, as his hands scramble for purchase on the rail, gone slick with his sweat. As he finally settles his hands in her hair, digging his fingers into loose red curls and bowing his head, panting.

“ _Vhenan_ ,” he pleads. “I am— _ah_ — _vhenan_ —”

She does something with her hand Kaaras can’t see, and Solas’ hips jerk. His head rolls back, and their eyes lock again—

“ _Kaaras_ ,” he whimpers. “Aevalle—Kaaras— _vhenan_ —”

His next cry is unintelligible, and unfortunately stifled by one of his hands. His eyes shut, and his body attempts to thrust several more times into Aevalle’s mouth, in spite of her keeping his hips pinned. He is forced to writhe in place instead, limbs twisting and his fingers curling, as he spills into her mouth, and she swallows it down.

Kaaras watches in fascination as Solas slumps down to the balcony floor, Aevalle cleaning him with her mouth all the while. And then they watch her wipe her face with the back of her hand, and straddle Solas’s lap to kiss him, lazily, while one of her hands tangles in that leather strap around his neck.

Kaaras has an absurd thought, then. That they want to go and make a rope out of all the sheets on the bed, and climb down to join them.

They withdraw instead, heart hammering, a hand going to their mouth to block the sound of shock that almost passes through their lips.

 

The next morning, they throw open Bull’s door at the crack of dawn. “I need sex advice,” Kaaras says, so loudly and quickly that it all blends together.

“What the _fuck!_ ” the Qunari howls, throwing his pillow over his face. “What the—Kaaras, has the sun even fucking _risen_ yet?” Then, as Kaaras’s words register, he sits up in bed, dropping the pillow. “What?”

“Positions.” Kaaras swallows as Bull continues to just gape at them openly. “I need—I need to know positions.”

Bull blinks at them owlishly. “Er—right now?”

Kaaras nods.

Bull’s brows furrow, and he gives Kaaras a long and very thorough look up and down.

“Okay,” he says, slowly. He gestures for Kaaras to come in and shut the door, then gets up and lights the lamp hanging from his wall.

Once Kaaras is standing in the corner of Bull’s room and Bull is once again seated on his bed—wearing a pair of poorly laced trousers—Bull crosses his arms and says, “Alright, Boss, what positions would you like to know?”

Kaaras hesitates.

Bull gives them a reassuring smile. “Alright. What positions _do_ you know?”

They open their mouth—then close it again. They do this twice more, all the while Bull’s frown just gets deeper, and deeper—

Bull suddenly looks as if he’s realised something. He runs his hand over his face and curses in Qunlat, under his breath so Kaaras can’t make out the particulars.

“You never slept with that prostitute,” he says. More to himself than to them.

Kaaras swallows. “No,” they answer, very softly. “I uh—I tried.”

Bull doesn’t respond.

“It’s just—she blindfolded me and I told her how I was madly in love with two people who didn’t love me back and I bawled my eyes out like a baby.”

Bull holds up a hand, and Kaaras stops.

“Oh, I’m going to have _words_ with Aevalle,” he grumbles. Then he shifts over, until there is room on the bed for Kaaras to sit. He pats it when they hesitate, and gives them a significant look until they come and sit next to him.

“She—she doesn’t know,” Kaaras manages to say. “I never said.”

“She never _asked_ , either. Alright,” Bull says. “The first thing you need to know, is that it’s never too late to stop. If it’s too uncomfortable, or too overwhelming, just say so, and any decent person will back off.”

“But I don’t _want_ them to back off—”

“Don’t interrupt. And, if somebody else wants to stop, you always stop. No questions asked. Ideally you will all sit down before you start and have a little chat about what direction you want everything to go, what you’re not comfortable with, and _then_ you get going. Alright?”

“But I don’t _know_ what I want.”

Bull sighs. “Well, that’s less of a problem going in than you might think. Okay, next thing…”

 

Kaaras climbs the stairs to their quarters that night with a head full of politics, troop movements, intrigue and, unfortunately, a half-complete mental picture of more ways to position three bodies with one another than they actually thought possible.

They had not quite been brave enough to locate the book Bull had recommended—that would have meant going anywhere near the rotunda, and they’re not sure they could manage to look Aevalle or Solas in the eye right now without spontaneously combusting.

They haven’t seen either of them since yesterday—since locking gazes with Solas on the balcony below while Aevalle…

They shake their head. It’s been… a long day. A good plan would be to just… have a bath made up, think on what Bull has told them, and call it a night.

They open the door to their quarters proper, and out wafts the smell of flowers.

Their thoughts honestly… stop, for a moment. And then they remember Bull, saying something about words with Aevalle, and—

They take the steps slowly, trying not to fidget too much with their clothes as they do. They hear the crackle of a fire in the fireplace, see the flicker of candlelight throughout the room—there are some on the stairs, in little wooden bowls so they don’t drip wax on the floor. A few petals scattered as well, though Kaaras doesn’t have the particular knowledge about plants to determine what kind. Some of them are white. Some of them are red.

They smell nice. That’s… probably the most important thing.

When they get to the top of the stairs, they see a number of things—candles lit, placed on a number of surfaces around the edge of the room. Flower petals scattered about the floor, the enormous Orlesian bed. The copper tub, full and steaming.

And beside the tub, Aevalle. Standing there, in her soft hunting leathers, pulling petals from a rose and tossing them into the water.

Her hair’s been done, Kaaras notes. Some of it up and some of it down, pretty little white flowers braided in. Her neck wrapped in a dark cloth that shimmers slightly, when she shifts her weight.

She’s looking down at the water, watching the flower petals float around. Kaaras thinks she looks pensive, or worried. Guilty? Completely lost in thought, either way.

Kaaras clears their throat, and Aevalle nearly falls into the tub in shock.

They almost laugh, at the thought that they’ve snuck up on the Inquisition’s Wild Dalish Hunter.

 _Kaaras!_ She signs their name with a bit more… energy than usual. _I didn’t hear you—shit I was going to—oh fuck I’m not dressed up yet—_

They can’t help a smile, at how flustered she is. Eyes wide and bright, pausing in between abandoned strings of signs to wring her hands, or to press them to her face.

“Would you like me to come back?” Kaaras asks, trying their best not to laugh at her. “I’ll pretend to be surprised, promise.”

She gives them a wry look from between her fingers. Then, with a sigh, she drags them away from her face. She shakes her head at them, a small smile forming on her lips as she signs, _You’re secretly funny, Kaaras Adaar._

They laugh a little in response. “So I’ve been told.”

Her smile fades, then, and she looks down at the floor, wringing her hands again.

 _I… have an apology to make,_ she begins, not quite looking at Kaaras. _Bull told me that you’re… not as experienced as I thought._

They don’t know how to respond, so they stay silent. Trying to ignore the feeling of their heart— _sinking_ , a little. Because that’s—they hadn’t let themselves _hope_ , had they? That would be absurd, and the only reason to feel disappointed as Aevalle begins to tell them she doesn’t want them after all.

Aevalle starts to pace, then pauses and closes her eyes. Breathes, swings her hands back and forth at her sides—and then she faces them again, gaze still firmly on the floorboards. Which Kaaras is incredibly thankful for, because their vision is getting a little blurry.

_I’ve been pushing, and I—I never asked you how you felt about it. Just… assumed you’d tell me if you didn’t like it. And it wasn’t fair to you, I see that now. So, no more games, Kaaras—I want you. I want Solas, and I don’t want to choose between you. And I know he wants you, even if he’s being ridiculous about it. So, if you want us, then just say so. And if you don’t…_

She falters. She glances up, as if she finally has the courage—and her eyes widen, her mouth opens and closes as a soft gasp escapes her.

 _Kaaras!_ she signs. _Why are you crying?_

They inhale, and their breath is shaking and rough and—“You _want_ me?” they stammer, disbelieving. “Solas—wants— _fuck_.”

They fall to their knees, _sobbing_ —and Maker they really do not need to be making a habit of this—but they do not fall alone. Aevalle rushes forward, and she catches their hands with hers, stopping them from covering their face so she can kiss it instead. Can bring the softness of her lips to the places their tears are running down, her breath rushing against their skin as her fingers curl against theirs.

Her lips make words against their skin—or, just one. _Kaaras_. Over and over—

Aevalle and Kaaras lie on the floor for a while, after Kaaras has finished crying. She curls up against them on her side, while they lie on their back and stare at the ceiling. One of her hands is still resting in theirs, and the other is playing with their hair. Her fingers are all tangling up in it, twisting the beads braided in.

She is… still there, with them. After they’d bawled their eyes out at a simple confession.

Eventually, she moves. She rises and swings one leg over Kaaras, straddling them. She buries both hands in their hair, leaning forward so their noses nearly touch.

Then she kisses them. Slow, and gentle—exploring, patient. Soft and sweet—just _movement_ really, though every brush of her skin against theirs feels like a rolling thunder is building in their core.

“ _Fuck_ ,” they breathe, when she pauses.

She takes her bottom lip between both of hers—sucks at it, gently, then gives it an even more timid bite.

It’s—not fair, letting her do all the work. Is it?

Kaaras tries to kiss her back—tentative and shy, this is so far from familiar ground to them but Aevalle’s hips shift, when they respond. A subtle roll against them, that they can barely feel through all their layers.

They have a sudden, intrusive thought—that those need to come _off_.

They gasp, and feel their face warm. No, that would be—

But she kisses them a little harder, then, and whatever thoughts Kaaras is about to have are chased away by _heat_ , by _her_ , by their trembling hands finding her hips, the curve of her waist, by their mouth slanting against hers, her breath rushing out of her and into them—

She does something with her teeth that makes Kaaras moan. And it sounds so— _wanton_ and obscene, they can feel their neck burning with the flush that comes to their skin.

Aevalle breaks the kiss, then, coming up for air. Kaaras whimpers, but as she sits up she’s grinning.

Their stomach does a little flip at the sight of it.

 _So I don’t mean to rush you,_ she signs, _but I’m going to need a solid yes or no in the next… few minutes._

They prop themselves up on their elbows. “What? Why?”

_Because when Solas walks through that door thinking you’ve summoned him for important elvhen translations, I need to be able to convince him to stay._

Kaaras frowns. “But I don’t need anything translated.”

“I gathered,” comes Solas’s voice from the stairs behind them. Surprisingly— _thick_.

Aevalle looks up, startled—and in any other situation, Kaaras would probably bust a gut at her being snuck up on twice in one day—and she climbs off Kaaras quickly, so they can sit and turn.

Solas is standing at the top of the stairs—one hand white-knuckled on the rail, the other holding some tome that is probably Very Important, but isn’t anywhere near as interesting to Kaaras right now as the flush all across Solas’s cheeks.

Kaaras recovers first. “You didn’t knock,” they say, blinking.

“You left the door open,” he returns, wavering. He looks as if he might flee from the room at the slightest provocation.

 _Wait_ , Aevalle signs.

“Solas,” Kaaras says, at the same time. They scramble to their feet, and tug at their clothes to adjust as they stand. “Don’t—don’t go. Just… hear me out.”

He exhales, but remains where he stands. “Of course.”

Kaaras takes a breath—and glances at Aevalle for courage. She smiles up at them, but patiently waits for them to collect their thoughts.

They swallow. _Maker_. They’ve never been very good at talking about these things, but—but suddenly it seems very important that they do.

“Solas, Aevalle. I… _want_ you. Both of you. I have for… a long time.”

Aevalle beams up at them. A quick glance at Solas confirms his flush has spread, but he is staring at them rather intently.

“I don’t have… I’m not…” They close their eyes and try to breathe, try to collect their thoughts. “I’ve never done this before. Not with one person, and definitely not with two. But—I want to try to make it work. With both of you. If… if you’ll have me. If you—if you want me, that is.”

Solas sighs. And it sounds so—resigned, so reluctant, that Kaaras thinks for a minute that he will turn on his heel and walk down the stairs.

But instead, he looks up at them and, with a small smile says, “Of _course_ I want you, Kaaras,” as if it’s the simplest thing in the world, and the most difficult at the same time.

They can’t help but smile, blinking rapidly because _no they’re not going to cry again_ , that would be ridiculous. “Oh,” is all they manage to say in return.

 _Alright_ , Aevalle signs. _So, then, how about we… give a few things a try?_

“Like?” Kaaras asks.

The question prompts a low laugh from Solas. When Kaaras looks at him, he is depositing the book on the desk with care. Kaaras isn’t sure, but they think his hands are trembling.

“We will take it slow,” he assures them as he walks towards them. But Kaaras has the feeling he is reassuring himself at the same time. “We will… talk about it as we go, so we know everyone is comfortable. And… debate the pros and cons of each act, before partaking. So that everyone understands what is involved, and can sit something out should they wish.”

Aevalle huffs out an amused breath. _How long do you think we have for this?_ she teases.

Solas reaches for her, then. Curling his fingers under her chin, and guiding her to him with just that touch. “If I had a say?” he asks, his lips brushing against hers as he does. “A thousand ages and more, _vhenan_.”

Her fingers begin to curl in the leather strap of that jawbone pendant.

Then Solas kisses her.

It’s not like Kaaras hasn’t seen them like this before. Once, or twice or—alright, they’ve spent an absolutely _embarrassing_ amount of time watching Solas and Aevalle kiss from afar. They’ve seen her hand tangle up in that cord, the other sliding around his waist or up to cup his face or, sometimes, further down. How Solas’s arms wind about her, one to steady her and the other to slip down her body to press against her ass.

This close, Kaaras can see their jaws move, and it is _mesmerising_. They watch the lines in his face vanish, the chiselled line of his shoulders soften. They can hear their breaths rushing in and out of one another, their lips sliding and smacking—

They can see the precise moment when Solas slips his tongue into her mouth.

And the trail of spit that dangles between them when they part.

Kaaras watches them pause—watches Solas rest his forehead against Aevalle’s without even opening his eyes, and take a shuddering breath. Aevalle leans up and into him, her eyelashes fluttering against his skin and her lips curling into a warm, patient smile.

They are so, so beautiful together. And Kaaras is—well.

 _But here they are_ , a small voice says, and their heart beats a little faster for it.

Before they can consider that thought, Solas opens his eyes and turns to them.

It only takes him half a stride before he reaches out, so tentatively Kaaras thinks he might still spook at any moment. But his hand cups their face, and they can feel his thumb brush against their jaw—callused, rough, long and delicate and so, so out of place next to them.

He seems to consider them a moment. His stormcloud eyes catch their gaze and hold it, hold them there with only a touch and a piercing gaze, searching for something in them that Kaaras wishes they could give him. Would, if he would just ask.

In the end, he seems to find it. He smiles, a little—the corners of his eyes crinkle and that makes Kaaras’s stomach do a little flip because it’s just _beautiful_ and _unfair_ —and as he begins to guide them down with such a gentle tug, Kaaras can only comply. Can only wilt under the adoration they find in his eyes, the open and honest affection that is more than _Inquisitor_ , and maybe even more than their name whispered as a confession in the throes of passion.

His first kiss is tentative, a soft brushing of his lips on theirs.

And his lips are so, so soft.

They can’t help the breath it startles out of them. Rough, ragged—their lips tremble, and they catch Solas’s breath on the air when they inhale again. It’s… warm. It tastes like something, but Kaaras can’t really place it.

Might just be what he had for lunch, which really shouldn’t turn them on as much as the whole concept does. Of being so close that they’re breathing the same air he is.

He chuckles, a little nervously, and steals Kaaras’s lips with his own.

And— _flames_.

Solas kisses like he’ll regret it later—or maybe like there _is_ no later. As if the world is about to tear apart at the seams, and everything that’s ever held him back has flown off the balcony somewhere, fleeing into the distance.

It’s… dizzying. They try to keep up— _Maker,_ do they ever try—but even the knowledge that Solas is here, willing, eager… on its own, that would be enough to bring them to their knees. As it stands, it’s all they can do to remember to breathe as they chase his lips with theirs, to resist being pulled down on top of him as he presses against them. He shifts closer, his hand curls tighter against their jaw and one of his hands rests against their hip. They can barely feel it through all their layers.

 _Those need to come off_ , they think again.

Kaaras lets out a startled sound, their teeth clack against his, and their already warm face turns to scalding.

In reply, Solas—

Solas fucking _laughs_.

It’s a low, throaty rumble that they can feel vibrating in every place he’s touching them, and almost as if it’s a physical thing in the air between them. It shoots across their skin like a current, and Kaaras very nearly accuses him of using magic because of the bumps on their skin rising all over.

Then his tongue slips into their mouth.

 _Maker_.

They were overwhelmed before, but now? Solas _devours_ them, his tongue curling and twisting and finding theirs. The whole world is just his mouth on theirs, his lips and tongue and breath mingling with theirs, each huff growing shorter and shorter. They can’t help but lean into him, start to pull him closer—

His breathing becomes frantic panting, and he lets out a low, soft gasp when they wind their arms around him. They can feel his jaw tremble, and his lashes flutter against their skin.

He pulls back, then—just enough to mouth at their neck, which Kaaras obligingly bares for him. He presses so many sweet, soft kisses to their skin, to the flutter of their pulse, that it’s all Kaaras can do to grasp him tighter, keep him close.

Solas pauses, and presses his forehead to their throat. It feels natural to curl around him a little, to envelop him and let him catch his breath. Just... _breathe._

Kaaras glances up. Aevalle is perched on the edge of the tub, watching them with hooded eyes and an impossibly fond smile.

Her gaze is… not without heat. When she sees Kaaras looking, her smile turns a little coy.

 _Don’t stop for me_ , she signs. _But if I could make a suggestion, I think you would both look better with your clothes on the floor._

Kaaras’s whole face feels like it’s on fire. “Clothes?” they parrot, their voice sounding strangely husky in between pants for breath. “Where?”

“Ah,” Solas breathes against their neck. “Yes, we should— _discuss_ , before we get any further.”

Aevalle rolls her eyes, but with an air of immense fondness.

Solas pulls back, and Kaaras lets him go, with some reluctance. Though their hands still linger on his hips.

He lifts two fingers and taps them three times against Kaaras’ waist, hard enough they can feel it through all their layers.

“If Aevalle does this, anywhere, we stop immediately, no matter what. If you wish us to stop what we are doing, then all you have to do is ask.”

 _But if I hold on and don’t let go_ , Aevalle signs, slipping off the tub to approach with swaying hips, _that means I like what you’re doing, and I want you to keep going._

“Effective communication between participants is vital in order for this to succeed,” Solas continues, drawing their gaze back to him. “Though it is understandable if you become overwhelmed at any point. As Aevalle and I have more experience, we will do our best to make certain you are comfortable at all times. And we—”

Aevalle stands on her toes and bites the back of his neck, just above the high collar of his shirt.

His jaw snaps shut so hard his teeth clack together.

Kaaras can’t quite see her expression, but as she turns her head they can see bits of it—a flash of teeth, lips curling in a satisfied smirk. As she reaches up to pull down his collar, to allow herself better access, she presses her body more firmly into Solas’ back, pushing him closer to Kaaras.

Well, it’s not like Kaaras is going to complain about that.

They pull him a little in turn, fingers digging ever so slightly into his hips. He gasps, surprised, as he is suddenly flush against them.

Kaaras can feel something somewhat hard pressing against their thigh. They would like to feel that without all their layers between them, they think, and this time the thought is only accompanied by heat, by _want_.

Then Aevalle shifts, does something that makes Solas _moan_ , and he rocks once against them.

“ _Vhenan_ ,” he manages to say, pressing his forehead to Kaaras’ shoulder.

“Clothes,” Kaaras says, their voice low.

“ _Yes_ ,” Solas agrees.

It’s a bit of a scramble, then, and there are curses and laughter enough between them for Kaaras to feel a little more at ease about the whole thing. Aevalle is impatient, borderline petulant, and seems actively determined to try and make Solas come undone in his pants before he can get them off or even get Kaaras out of all their layers—her hands on his thighs, her hips rolling in slow circles at his back, pushing him against Kaaras’ leg at the crest of each.

Kaaras thinks they would be happy to oblige, for a moment. They give up on trying to pull Solas’s shirt over his head, and just bury a hand in Aevalle’s hair as she presses her face to the back of his neck.

But they are too warm, now, with the heat of the room and their own arousal—and Solas’s hot breath on their neck, the heat of him seeping through all their layers. So they pull away, ignoring the moan—of relief or dismay, they can’t really tell—that passes through Solas’ lips.

They shrug out of their jacket, then their first shirt, before Solas whirls and gathers Aevalle up in his arms.

It startles a laugh out of her—and the sound of it makes Kaaras’s heart flip in their chest. Her laugh is rough, rugged—there are hints of what Kaaras imagines she used to sound like, before, underneath it all. Breathy and wild, she stifles it before the sound can carry too far, as Solas dumps her on the bed. She lies back, her hands resting on either side of his face as she bites her lip.

“Beautiful,” he tells her, and any embarrassment on her features vanishes.

Kaaras gets down to their last layer on top, the thin undershirt just above their breast band, while Solas divulges Aevalle of her leggings.

And then they get a little distracted, watching because who knew those footwraps would be so complicated? Or, frankly, alluring to watch as they are removed—because Solas takes his sweet time, though his fingers tremble, caressing and curling and pressing kisses to every bit of flesh he exposes.

Aevalle manages to pull off his vest and shirt while he does this— _how_ , Kaaras is not entirely sure, but she certainly pulls them up over his head so that he is forced to pause in his task and pull them off himself, with a curse.

When his chest is bare, Aevalle leans back on the bed and gestures for Kaaras to join her.

They climb up on the other side of the bed, and she lies back and directs them until they are hovering over her, directly opposite Solas, knees on either side of her head. She takes their hands and moves them to the jacket she’s wearing. She smiles so sweetly up at them as they fumble with the clasps—it’s harder upside down than it looks—and runs her hands up and down the bare skin of their arms.

They get her jacket open, and she signs, looking directly into their eyes. Fingers splay out as she gestures over her face.

 _Beautiful_.

Her pupils are so, so wide. They shudder.

She reaches down and slips out of her jacket. She is wearing a thin, pale shirt underneath, and Kaaras’ breath catches in their throat when they see her nipples through the fabric, hard and erect. She tosses it somewhere over their shoulder, then takes their hands once again, guiding them to her breasts.

She is so, so small. Kaaras worries for a moment that they will hurt her, unintentionally, so they decide to be as gentle as they can. The fabric of her shirt is soft against their palms, and Aevalle arches into their touch a little...

Her lips part; they feel an overwhelming urge to lean down and kiss her. So they do not fight it—and they feel her smile on their lips, the soft and pleased exhale she lets out at contact tickling their skin.

Kissing is… _different_ , upside-down. Their chin keeps bumping into her nose, but she makes no move to correct them, or indicate that it’s bothering her. Mostly they feel a little self-conscious about it, so even with their eyes closed they can’t quite get into it like they did earlier, on the floor. But she is soft, and her breath is warm, and Kaaras finds that they do not _dislike_ kissing Aevalle like this.

In spite of technical difficulties, they think right now that there are few ways they would dislike kissing Aevalle.

“ _Vhenan_ ,” Solas says, interrupting their thoughts.

Kaaras rises enough so Aevalle can look down at Solas at the same time they do. He is still perched between her legs, her body now bare down to her smalls and the shirt, his hands on her legs.

He pauses a moment, his eyes flicking up and down, between Kaaras and Aevalle. Kaaras watches his throat bob as he swallows.

He seems unable to say anything for a long moment—just watching them with wide, dark eyes, his lips parting as he considers them.

Just as Kaaras considers asking what’s wrong, Aevalle snorts and slips out from under Kaaras, pulling her legs away from Solas.

Aevalle directs Kaaras to lie back on the bed, and they oblige—the warmth of her hands on their shoulders enough to make any second thought fly out the window. She toys with the hem of their shirt, and when her knuckles brush against the skin of their stomach they gasp.

Standing beside the bed, Solas lets out a ragged breath.

“Ah,” they manage to say, in response to the coy smile on Aevalle’s lips as she straddles them. As she leans over them, her hair falling over one shoulder like a curtain between them.

 _Beautiful_ , they think, but cannot quite seem to say. Their mouth hangs open, air passes through their throat, but all the words they want to say to her seem to be all tangled up, so nothing comes out instead.

She slips her hands under their shirt, palms flat to their flesh, and a startled gasp escapes them instead.

In a heartbeat, she surges forward, capturing their lips with hers.

 _Yes_ , Kaaras thinks, and they kiss her back—chasing her as she teases, nips and licks, following her as she tries to retreat, sinking back into the pillows as she presses forward. Her hands start to slip their shirt up, up their body, exposing the hard lines of their hips and stomach to the chill air of the room, but they only think that she should go _faster_ , that the places she is touching them feel like fire, like life, and their toes are curling the longer she touches them and there needs to be _more_ of it, and it never needs to stop.

She breaks the kiss to pull their shirt over their head, and Kaaras whimpers—at the loss of contact, at the necessity of it. It snags on one of their horns, a little, but then it’s tossed somewhere over Aevalle’s shoulder and she’s kissing them again, her hands finding the ties of their breast band.

Her fingers keep brushing against their skin, as she fumbles a little with the knot. It’s not enough, and they want to touch her back but they’re not sure _how_ , or _where_ , just that they _want_ —

Solas takes one of their hands. His skin is _cool_ against theirs, somehow, and they want to blame magic but honestly most things are probably cold compared to them in this moment. His thumb runs over their knuckles, and then the soft flutter of his lips as he presses trembling kisses to each—the next always more eager than the last.

Kaaras moans in dismay, as he drops it. As Aevalle finally unties their breast band and pulls back to— _admire_.

There’s really no other word for it. She straddles their waist, letting the band fall from her hand to the floor. Her eyes are so, so dark as they wander, taking them all in. Their breasts, their stomach, their collarbone, their face—she looks them over as they lie beneath her, panting for breath and twisting a little, wishing she would come back down and kiss them some more. They’re trying to ask, but the words are all tangled up.

Solas sits on the bed next to them, not a stitch on him.

They can’t make out many of the… _details_ from where they lie, his thigh obscuring anything particularly interesting. His gaze passes over them as they blink up at him, an approving smile on his lips and that little crinkle in the corners of his eyes.

He takes their hand again. “Beautiful,” he tells them.

They swallow. “Oh,” is all they can say in reply.

Aevalle reaches up as she bends down—and as she kisses Kaaras again, she begins to touch their breasts.

And that is… different. She goes slow, as if she is savouring the feeling—Kaaras suddenly regrets being so gentle with her earlier, because they certainly want _more_ now. Solas drops their hand and moves away as Aevalle explores with soft touches, fleeting little brushes of her fingertips. Any touch from her is pleasant, they suppose, but as she runs her hands over the soft flesh on their chest, they just want her to be rougher, faster—

Then she pinches one of their nipples between her thumb and finger.

Their cry is muffled against her mouth—she chases the sound greedily, and she does it again on the other breast as if to see if the sound will be repeated. It is, a little softer—it’s a little less startling this time around, though the shock of pleasure it sends down their spine is the same. She focuses her attentions there, beginning to roll their nipples between her fingers. They can feel them harden, and as she works heat pools between their legs. They feel— _restless_ is not the word, but their hips begin to shift, as if to relieve _something_ , and their hands make useless fists in the sheets at their side.

Aevalle’s breath is hot against their skin, frustratingly steady where theirs is growing so erratic, her movements so precise and controlled even as they cannot remain still beneath her. Even as their hips _jerk_ , rise and fall, as their hands can’t stand inaction any longer and they grip her waist with one hand, skin and shirt alike under their nails, and a fistful of her hair with the other, trying to get her _closer_ , somehow, feeling like there’s still space between them somehow and they want it gone, all of it.

That’s about when Solas’s hands find the fastenings of their pants and undo them with deft movements.

Aevalle breaks the kiss to glance over her shoulder—and Kaaras looks down as best they can, their view blocked by the woman on top of them. Solas is kneeling on the bed at their feet, reaching between Aevalle’s legs to remove Kaaras of the rest of their clothing.

They only get a glimpse, before Aevalle bends down to kiss them again. Harder, rougher—and they moan as Solas’s cool fingers slip under their waistband, finding all three layers at once, and pull everything they are wearing down.

And there _must_ be magic in his touch now, they think as they raise their hips to accommodate him. As their pants and smalls slide over their hips and down their ankles, there is a chill like ice that lingers in every brush of his skin against theirs. As he bends down to kiss their legs, they let out a groan that is muffled by Aevalle’s devouring lips— _cool_ , grounding, steadying, it makes the heat and the utter want _more_ , somehow.

As he guides their legs apart, as he runs his hands up and down their thighs, the frost from his touch begins to fade. His fingertips grow warmer, slowly, as his hands move higher, warmer and warmer—

Aevalle breaks the kiss and climbs off them, but Kaaras barely has a moment to let out a protest before Solas lifts their legs over his shoulders and presses his hot, hot tongue to their folds.

They’re… not entirely sure _what_ they shout in response. Only that it is something, that Solas laughs against their skin at it—a low chuckle that makes everything down there nearly _vibrate_ , a little, and they can’t help but roll their hips against his face at the sound of it.

He doesn’t let up, in any case. He… certainly knows what he’s doing.

It’s pretty clear he likes to explore, really. That he enjoys taking his time—goes around and around, testing and licking and kissing, pulling back every once in a while to lean back and stare and smile. While it makes pleasant little butterflies roll around in their stomach, is not exactly helpful because then he stops _touching them._

They whimper the second time he does that. As he glances up at their face, his eyes dark and his expression so full of _want_ that it makes their heart hammer against their chest, Aevalle swoops down and takes one of their nipples between their teeth.

“Fuck,” they say, through gritted teeth. Then again, louder, when Solas bends down and resumes where he left of—slipping his tongue into their slit a few times, before moving back up to their clit and pressing fleeting, tentative kisses to it. His fingers digging into their legs, but that’s not where they want them—

“Solas,” they say, high and pleading. “I—I—please— _please_.”

He curses against their skin in response. And then Kaaras quickly discovers that it is one thing, to have their fingers inside them, and someone else’s.

Solas starts with one—long and slender, callused from writing and staffwork. He licks and sucks, alternatively, while Aevalle begins to roll their neglected nipple between her fingers. He pumps once, tentatively, in and out, and Kaaras tries not to buck against his face but fails rather miserably. Tries to hold back their stuttering cry, too, but that comes out of them all the same.

The next finger is—their head rolls back and the sound that comes out of their mouth is _obscene_ , a cry torn from their throat that’s gone rough and ragged, and when Solas begins to move both fingers inside them they cover their mouth with a hand.

He pulls back, and they whimper in dismay. “Kaaras,” he says.

His voice is rough and low. They tremble at the sound.

“Kaaras,” he says again, “ _vhenan_ , _ma lath_ , I want to hear you. Please.”

They swallow. They have heard him say those words before, and they don’t know for sure what he means but he only ever says them to Aevalle. Who is still— _determined_ , it seems, kissing and sucking and licking as if there has been no pause, as if no one is trying to have a conversation.

They rest their hand in her hair instead, and Solas bows down once more to resume where he left off.

“Ah,” they stutter, as his fingers begin to slide in and out. Slowly, tentatively—and Solas only laughs a little, low in his throat as they whine and try to grind down on him, try to make him speed up. He moves one of their legs a little further over with his spare hand, and keeps it there, giving him a bit more room.

Aevalle, as if understanding his intentions, reaches down and curls her arm around Kaaras’ thigh, spreading them further still.

“Please,” they whimper, pinned now, unable to grind down or writhe as they want. “ _Please_.”

Aevalle pauses, and presses a gentle kiss to their collarbone. Solas does the same to the inside of their thigh, before returning and… doubling down on his previous efforts. Fingers curling, tongue lathing, nails digging in, soft and pleased noises escaping his lips and making everything down there _hum_ —

A… great deal of sound comes out of their mouth, and there is nothing they can do to stop it. They writhe, trapped, pinned by two slender elves and overwhelmed by touch and sound and tongues—and they _scream_ , obscenities, names, wordless pleas and oaths as they _beg_ , for release, for this to never end—

“Solas,” they cry, when he adds a third finger.

“Aevalle,” they stammer, when her lips return to their breast.

They arch their back, when her hand leaves their nipple and begins to wander, slipping all over their slick skin, fingers splaying over the hard, _heaving_ lines of their stomach, pressing down to keep them, presumably, from bucking poor Solas off the bed, the way their hips are moving.

“ _Kadan_ ,” they breathe, without thinking, without even remembering where they heard it from—ages ago, something whispered, something secret—and then they say it over and over, interspersed with pleas and names and—

“Solas—Aevalle— _Kadan_ —please—please don’t stop—I can’t—yes, fuck, _yes—_ ”

Solas curls his fingers, presses his tongue down _hard_ , and Aevalle’s lower teeth graze their skin, and all at once everything that has been building up just burns that much hotter. All the way down their spine, to every tip of their fingers and toes, so electric and wild they swear for a moment they can feel it in their fucking horns, as their throat burns with whatever they’re screaming, as they writhe and _try_ to move, try and fail to grind down on every place they are being touched, to make it _more_ even as they are utterly overwhelmed by this sensation crashing over them from every angle.

It takes them some time to come back down. For everything but bliss and _release_ to come back to them, slowly, as though through a pleasant fog that seems to have dulled every one of their senses. They are dimly aware that they are slumped, boneless on the mattress, that Aevalle is currently shifting and lying alongside them, so she can kiss their neck and just _breathe_ , there.

They look up, blearily, as Solas sits up between their legs. Wiping slickness off his face with the back of his hand, and his cock jutting out between his legs, hard and erect as he stares down at them with dark, dark eyes.

“Oh,” they say, with a rough voice.

He smiles. Then, very slowly, he slides out from between their legs, to sit beside them on the bed. Then he leans down, tilts their chin up with a warm, slick finger, and kisses them.

He is… warm. All plush lips, lazy tongue. He tastes like _them_ , and they have tasted themselves before, out of curiosity mostly after reading a few salacious books, but on him it tastes…

They whimper against his lips, softly. Even as they reach for him, for the hardness between his legs.

But his hand catches theirs, and he withdraws with a chiding hum. “I would like to watch first,” he says, in response to the low, quizzical noise they make in complaint.

 _Watch what,_ they wonder, but cannot ask. Words are, understandably, a little difficult for them to manage at the moment.

But then he pulls back, and Aevalle pushes their shoulders back into the mattress to keep them from rising. They look up at her, confused, as she straddles them, then pauses to lean down and kiss their forehead. They are still confused, though, as she pulls back, finds their hands and guides them to her hips. Straddling their shoulders—

 _Oh_ , they realise, belatedly, and their fingers dig in instinctively.

She looks down at them with a coy smile, tossing her smalls over a shoulder.

“What if I do it wrong?” they manage to ask, wide-eyed.

She shrugs. But she is still looking down at them eagerly, pupils blown wide, and they can smell her from here.

Karaas swallows. But they nod, slowly, and give her a little push to urge her upwards.

She gives their hands a reassuring pat before she obeys, kneeling on either side of their head. Trailing her fingers all along their horns, for a moment, before reaching out and gripping the headboard with both hands to steady herself.

They are arrested with an image of her riding their face, gripping their horns for dear life. Distracted by that, for a good long moment—and they think of asking her about it, but then they think it’s not best for this _particular_ position. Not very stable. Maybe later, with her on her back and legs askew…

But then she lowers herself, and Karaas rises to meet her, and—

And they were right. They don’t think there is a way they will not enjoy kissing Aevalle.

Still reeling from the rather thorough demonstration Solas gave them earlier, they decide to go slow. To explore a little, as she stays very still.

They venture gentle kisses, first. And she is so, _so soft_ down here, and _warm_ , that it is easy just to do that for a while. To kiss, and breathe in the smell of her, musky and dark, and to let the slide of lips on skin and dark curls be all they think of. To be just… immersed in her, utterly.

But then they think of heat, and how it felt to have Solas’s tongue on them.

They part their lips and use their tongue to part hers.

Aevalle is trembling above them, breathing hard by the time they find her clit. Not that they don’t know where it is, but they take their time getting there—gently exploring, licking and tasting and pausing to kiss. To breathe and ground themselves in her, above them, trying desperately not to move her hips.

They draw her tongue along her clit, and she damn near grinds their face through the mattress.

They make a surprised noise, and Solas moves on the bed beside them. Aevalle tries to pull back, gasping, but Kaaras thinks of what she said earlier and digs their fingers into her hips. Not hard or anything, but just enough pressure to keep her in place—to let her know they are not hurt, and they would like her to stay.

The mattress shifts, and then there are another set of legs straddling them. Solas murmurs something to Aevalle they don’t hear, and a glance upward gives them some view of his head buried in her neck, one hand reaching around to grip her breast and the other sliding down.

It rests above their hand, on her hip. Fingers splaying in between theirs, linking and steadying all at once.

Solas moves her, then. Gentle, steady circles, rocking against Kaaras’s mouth.

Kaaras closes their eyes, and carries on where they left off.

They aren’t sure what to do with the movement thing, now that Solas has it going. But they adjust, after a while—it’s steady enough, constant, and with their eyes closed they can focus on everything else—the increasing frequency of Aevalle’s gasps, the growing roughness of her breaths, the sweat of Solas’s palm on the back of their hand, the tremble of his thighs against their skin as he controls Aevalle’s movements, his own breathing growing ragged and how beautiful it sounds muffled against her skin—

They suck and they kiss and they lick through it all, utterly forgetting everything that isn’t Solas and Aevalle above them, covering them.

And then, when it seems that it will go on forever—a blissful, wonderful kind of forever—a ragged, broken noise escapes Aevalle’s lips. Stifled halfway through, like the laughter that’s so hard to startle out of her, a scratching kind of noise that sounds nearly painful. She bucks against their face, in spite of Solas’s best efforts, and there’s a rush of new wetness on their face—not a whole lot, just enough to surprise them a little—and she trembles and breathes through it all, writhing under Solas and Kaaras’s combined hold.

Solas helps her down when she slumps sideways, once it is done. She lies facedown on the bed, trying to catch her breath—and she turns her head and looks at Kaaras with a smile that is just… warm. And fond. And utterly, completely, totally content.

Corypheus could attack Skyhold right now, blow the whole place to bits, and they wouldn’t care. Not with Aevalle looking at them like that.

Solas shifts his weight—he’s still straddling them—and draws their attention away from her, back to him. Legs on either side of them, cock hard and flushed, his lips parted and his gaze as it rests on their face is soft, warm.

They look up into his eyes, pupils blown wide, and bite their lip.

“Kaaras,” he says, his voice thick and low. “May I make love to you?”

“Yes,” they say. A little too quickly, maybe—and maybe Solas would have enjoyed more of a chase, more of a discussion, but he is hard and wanting, and tasting Aevalle has made them warm and eager all over again.

And their name, in his voice, rough with want like that—they think they’d do anything to hear it again. And again. And—

He leans forward and steals their lips—and their frantic thoughts—with a kiss. Slow, but somehow still as desperate as before. Demanding, and _hot_ , his tongue twining with theirs in measured, but fierce movements.

Kaaras whimpers when he sits up again—but then his hands are guiding their legs father apart with gentle touches that light their skin on fire all over again, and it’s all they can do to roll their head back and just _breathe,_ feeling the tip of him against their slit.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck—_

Solas works his hands in slow, slow circles against their skin. “Just relax,” he whispers. “And if at any time you want me to—”

“ _Please_ ,” they whine, high and pathetic.

A soft, breathy laugh escapes him. “Of course,” he replies, and then bends and kisses them once more before pushing in.

He goes slow. Slower than Kaaras thinks they need, at first, and they bite their lip so they don’t whine impatiently. But they are new to this, and Solas’s fingers are not the same as his cock, pressing into them, hot and hard—

He trembles, once n he is flush inside them.

They are doing their best not to _writhe_ beneath him.

He bends and kisses them again—all along their shoulder, their neck, their jaw. “Perfect,” he tells them, his breath hot on their skin. “Kaaras. _Vhenan_.”

“ _Kadan_ ,” they breathe in reply, without hesitation.

Beside them, Aevalle slips off the bed. Kaaras barely has time to note it, before Solas sits up again, and his hands find their hips.

He starts to rock against them—in and out, slow and steady. They try to focus on—anything, really, but it seems like their whole world has been reduced to the feeling of him inside them, how _full_ they feel of him. Just the right amount of stretch, but as he goes on—in and out, in and out—they can feel something building inside, and as they begin to move their own hips in time with his they want… _more._

“Kaaras,” he whispers. “Look at me.”

They nearly laugh—how could they do that? They’re too busy _breathing._

But he asks again, breathy and desperate, and Kaaras has no choice but to obey. To open their eyes and look up at him, above them. He’s flushed all over, his eyes dark, beads of sweat forming on his brow, and when their eyes lock he bites his lip.

“Ah,” they manage to say, softly.

Then Solas rocks into them a little harder, and they very nearly shout it in surprise.

Aevalle returns to the bed, her skin ghosting over Kaaras’ legs as she slips in behind Solas with a bottle in her hand. Kaaras only sees it because she holds it where Solas can see it.

A strangled noise escapes his throat when he looks at it, and his skin flushes further.

He manages a very, _very_ quiet “Yes,” in response.

Aevalle kisses the back of his shoulder—she pauses when she sees that she has caught Kaaras’ eye, allowing time for a grin that is equal parts wicked and fond as she kisses her way up his neck. She bites him, once, and Solas’ hips snap so hard that Kaaras cries out.

He tries to pull back, apologies tumbling from his lips—but Kaaras only grabs his hips, their short nails digging in a little to keep him there.

“I’m—” They shudder. “I’m good. Stay, please. _Please_.”

His expression softens. He bends down and kisses them again—and they feel as though it’s another apology, for how gentle he goes. How slow and delicate he is, though they whine and try to rock against him, how their hands curl uselessly against his skin as he is pressed flush against them but he is not _moving_ as they so ache for him to.

Then his breath catches, and he has to pause. Has to bury his face in the crook of their neck, his breath coming hot and heavy against their skin.

A few drops of something cool and slick falls from Solas to Kaaras. They shudder at the sudden chill on their overwhelmingly warm skin—and again they see Aevalle, crouching behind Solas, biting her lip as she meets their gaze.

Her eyes flick all over them—where Solas’ face is pressed to their neck, to the line of his shoulders, to the repeated, aborted rise and fall of Kaaras’ hips. Then she bends over Solas’s back to steal a kiss from them—quick and hot, all sliding tongue and grind of teeth and lips, the rush of too-hot breaths mingling in what space remains between them.

Between them, Solas trembles. His hips jerk, and Kaaras moans against Aevalle’s lips.

“ _Vhenan_ ,” Solas begs into the skin of Kaaras’s neck.

Aevalle pulls back to kiss Solas’ shoulder again. She kisses and nips her way down his back, her eyes locked with Kaaras’s the entire time, until she is once again sitting up.

The skin of his legs glides along theirs as behind him, Aevalle guides his legs further apart. She takes the bottle and pours some of its contents on the dip of Solas’s back, and—though Kaaras can’t see it very well, they _think_ it also goes down the crack of his ass.

Aevalle pauses to liberally coat her fingers with the oil. Then her hand disappears between his legs, and Solas makes a very quiet, _very_ lewd sound.

“Oh,” Kaaras manages to say. And part of them wants to sit up—so they can see better, perhaps, or so Solas is so thoroughly pinned between them that he cannot move. The burn of their own desire tempered some, by the curiosity of what, exactly, is going on down there.

But then Solas’ whole body jerks, his cock thrusting a little deeper and grinding down against a spot that makes every thought other than _more_ fly out of their head.

“Fuck,” they manage to say. “Solas— _please_.”

His breath against their neck is in hot, frantic bursts. He says something they don’t understand—something elvhen, they think, though they suspect it would be incoherent even to Aevalle’s ears—and then he begins to move within them again. Slowly, as if he is expending great effort to do so, his face still buried in their neck.

Aevalle crouches low over him, then, and kisses his back once again. She runs her free hand over his hip, up his back, all over his skin, in circles that are probably meant to be soothing but only seem to drive Solas a little wilder the longer she does it. He begins to moan, so quietly, and every little noise he make vibrates deep in his chest, so Kaaras feels the ghost of it on their own skin where he lies over them.

Kaaras’ hands find his hips again, and they try to urge him on. They are so, so close, and they can feel every little breath and whimper and tremble of his lips on their skin, and he is slick with sweat and what oil has dripped from his back to them and he is buried in them, and with every gentle movement of his hips they can feel him tremble, can feel their own frustration mounting because he is not going hard enough and there is such a need in them, but they don’t know what to do—

They are begging, they realise belatedly. Whimpering and pleading and whining, their hips jerking as they try to bear down on him within them, but do not quite know how to do it.

“Solas,” they are saying, over and over. “Solas, Aevalle, I need— _please_ —”

Through it all, Solas’s moans turn to whimpers, then to groans, and then to hot, loud _panting_ against their skin as he trembles, and moves so Maker-damned slow that Kaaras just wants to scream at him.

And then Aevalle must do something different—because Solas cries out against Kaaras’s neck, and his hips _snap_ again, and then all of a sudden he is building up the pace. Quite rapidly, he goes from agonizingly slow and gentle to all but bucking on the bed—grinding himself back onto Aevalle’s fingers, then forward between Kaaras’ legs.

“Fuck,” Kaaras cries, and they find they can’t stop. Their voice climbs higher, and dimly they are aware of one of their legs being pulled higher around Solas’ waist, and they respond by moving the other leg in kind, but it doesn’t quite seem to stay there. “Yes—yes Solas, _kadan_ , harder, harder—fuck, _ah_ — _please_ —yes— _ah!_ “

He curses into their skin. Soon he is not so much grinding down on them as rutting them into the mattress. Kaaras’s pleas drown out the banging of the bedframe against the wall. His incomprehensible elvhen joins in, whispered into their ear—every vowel drawn out, every consonant stuttered, and they don’t think anyone could understand a word of it but it feels like praise, it feels like _yes,_ like their name uttered over and over as his voice grows rougher, higher.

They have never felt so full. They have never— _felt_ so much. They are burning alive, and even the silk beneath them is too much—they are drowning in pleasure, in scent, in _him_ and _her_ , and every part of them is on fire and they never want it to stop but they want—they _want_ —

“ _Ah_ ,” Solas growls into their ear. “ _Ah, Kaar—aah!_ ”

He bites the skin of their neck, and the heat and the touch and— _and—_

They scream when they come. A wave of it, hard and fast—they clench and spasm around him as he thrusts harder, deeper, and they clutch at him, their hands scrambling for purchase on his slick skin and finding none. They buck up against him in short, stuttering movements, seeking more contact, _seeking_ , and they are so, so full and hot that they are only sensation, for some time. Only the slide of him in them, only fullness, only feeling and how _good_ it is, before it all crashes and they feel—they feel—

Solas comes, sometime during the mess of their orgasm. They are dimly aware of him crying out one final time, of the sensation of him spilling inside them—but they are white-hot when it happens, back arching, their mind gone white with _release_ as their body bucks and spasms, and draws the last of Solas’ pleasure from him while they writhe, utterly overwhelmed.

By the time Solas gives his last, futile attempts at thrusting into them, they are slumped, boneless beneath him. He collapses atop them as they come back down to themselves again, as they become dimly aware of every nerve in their body tingling instead of just simply being aflame.

He is breathing heavily into their neck. Utterly spent and exhausted.

“Maker,” Kaaras breathes.

Solas chuckles—dry and rough—and he pulls back enough to find their lips and, rather sloppily, kiss them.

“Indeed,” he manages to say against their mouth.

Kaaras laughs, breathlessly, and Solas hums in agreement before drawing back. He slips out of Kaaras before collapsing to the bed on the side of them, curling up into their side.

Aevalle sits on the bed at Kaaras’s other side, looking entirely too pleased with herself as she wipes her hand clean with a cloth. She leans in to kiss Kaaras, then Solas, and then leaves. She returns with two damp cloths, and busies herself for a moment with cleaning them both while they lie, boneless, on the bed. Her attentions are gentle, soothing, and the cloth is cool on their overheated skin.

Only when she is finished, and they are both clean to her satisfaction, does she stretch all alongside Kaaras. Smiling, smug and maybe a little smitten, she finds Kaaras’s hand and twines their fingers in her own. A moment later, Solas shifts, and his hand closes over both of theirs, and the sigh that follows is so utterly content that Kaaras cannot help but echo it, and then feel its sentiments repeated again in the sound of the breath that escapes Aevalle, the warmth of it against their shoulder.

They should, they think, be too exhausted to wonder what comes next. But they can’t help it, really—some part of them still worried that they will wake to an empty bed, that there will be no repeat. But then Aevalle kisses their skin again, and Solas’ hand tightens over theirs as he mutters, “ _Ar lath ma_ ,” against their neck. Their worries settle enough for them to close their eyes and smile, and just let _this_ —being surrounded by the two people they care most about—be a simple thing.

**Author's Note:**

> As a bonus, for making it through literally fourty pages of sin and angst, here's my favourite comments Theia was kind enough to leave on the poor google doc file we kept sending back and forth... There are so many that my computer kept threatening to crash every time I loaded it up XD
> 
>  **unseeliequeens**  
>  tfw u've been in this hellhole for over a year w/ no escape in sight and u still get mushy at any solavellan reaction
> 
>  **unseeliequeens**  
>  what the actual fuck, dream!solas. (real!solas??? if so that's a dick move because kaaras doesn't seem to be a conscious dreamer. rude af. !!!! RUDE AF. af.)  
>  **unseeliequeens**  
>  oh shit was that not a dream?? THAT WAS REAL SOLAS. WH A T THE FUCK. WREK HIM AEVALLE
> 
>  **unseeliequeens**  
>  i just noticed this why did my bby sleep in the stables the first time PROTECT THEM 2k16
> 
>  **unseeliequeens**  
>  ok so i forgot to mention this but i love aevalle's sense of timing. it's amazing. 'ok so kaaras will take x minutes to lose all their money in the tavern, i gotta find time to stall solas before i can make a move RIGHT AS kaaras is walking by...... [three days later] ok so it takes kaaras x minutes to meet with josephine that gives me y minutes to sneak up to their room and open their door and z minutes to convince solas to let me blow him on his balcony. what could go wrong' i love this girl  
>  **playwithdinos**  
>  Either she knows Kaaras' routine really well or she moves with the speed of plot
> 
>  **unseeliequeens**  
>  this made me think of kaaras as a baby elephant. don't ask me why. it's adorable and needs to be protected i guess idk  
>  **unseeliequeens** (three months later and _not_ at one in the morning)  
>  baby elephant kaaras what was i smoking lmao
> 
>  **unseeliequeens**  
>  [pterodactyl screech from the pits of sin] I LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS
> 
>  **unseeliequeens**  
>  [slips on sunglasses in order to view solas in the proper amount of shade]
> 
>  **unseeliequeens**  
>  its one am and i am a happy clam roasting in the pits of beautiful, beautiful sin
> 
>  **unseeliequeens**  
>  I AM SO EXCITED TO SEE HOW MUCH PPL WILL LOVE THIS. (they won't love it as much as i do, btw.)


End file.
